So Long, Pepsi-Cola
by iamsheena
Summary: Based on Sodapop Curtis being drafted to fight in the Vietnam War, and the result of the draft. T for street cred and mild language.
1. Death

**AN: The sound of awe echoes through the room as I say, I just read _The Outsiders_ for the first time. Ever. I'm 22. I have to teach it come November, so that's the only reason I came across it. I watched the movie afterwards, and then succumbed to fan fiction. I'm also on a serious 80's movie kick now. It's all really wonderful. I started on a Dally fic yesterday, but after watching _Risky Business_ and internet-stalking Tom Cruise, ultimately leading me back to _The Outsiders_, I came across a piece of trivia about Rob Lowe (sigh, Rob Lowe, sigh), S. E. Hinton, and Sodapop, and decided it necessary to write a short story for it. I only plan for it to be a few chapters or so.**

**Sorry for typos, grammatical errors, and anything else that could be caught with a quick edit. I just don't feel like editing. Merp.**

**Well, here it goes... let me know what you think. Or don't. Not letting me know is cool too.**

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**CHAPTER ONE**

**Death**

All he heard was a clear ringing as he searched for a place to hide. Everything around him was a blur though. He could see fire and explosions surrounding him but he saw no men, comrades or otherwise. In the moment, no fear seeped into his person. He was calm and determined to get out of there. Alive. He just had to find something – anything – to hide behind, to shield himself from explosions and any bullets that would find their way to him.

Everything was so dark. He couldn't find anything that could help him. All he saw was fire. If he kept going, it would end and he would be safe. Maybe he could go home. Maybe the war would be over. Maybe things would be like they used to be. Maybe.

He kept low as he crawled over debris and bodies. None of the horrors registered in his eyes. His life was all that mattered at that moment. He knew he was going to get out and go home, and see Ponyboy and Darry; Steve and Two-Bit too. Maybe he could track Sandy down. She loved him. He knew it. He could open up his own auto-repair shop with Steve. He could do what he loved and make money enough to support himself and his family. Nothing would stop him.

This is what he hoped, but the war had other plans. As Sodapop Curtis distanced himself from the fire caused by enemy bombing, and things got darker, he found himself by a tree-heavy area. He made his way behind the trees, using them as cover. He wanted to rest so bad, but knew that it could mean his death. So, on he went. He was on his feet now, but still stayed low. He hoped that he was quiet, but all he could hear was that damned ringing. He ran anyway. He ran until he couldn't breathe, and then he walked, pushing himself. Where would he end up? The thought had never really occurred to him before. Was he going into enemy territory? Where was he? He felt so disoriented in the dark and without sound. He stopped in his tracks and looked for signs of life to where he was going. The only thing he saw was trees in every direction. The fires were no longer in view. He was completely alone.

At that moment, he had no idea what he should do. If he kept going, he could run into enemies. He could also run into comrades. Was the risk worth it? It looked like bombs had stopped falling a while ago. He was one lucky son-of-a-gun, but should he push it? The indecisiveness caused him to sit up against one of the many trees. He brought his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them, searching for movement. While he sat, he couldn't keep thoughts of home out of his mind. Sometimes he would imagine that he was talking to one of his brothers and knew full-well how they would answer. Among all of the horrors, this exercise seemed to keep him sane. He felt sane anyway.

Sodapop was imagining the jokes that Two-Bit would make, if he could make jokes, about this situation. Sitting in place, unafraid, but unsure. Not very productive. A whole lot of good it was doing too. He could see the faces of everyone. Their smiles, their mannerisms, their jokes. Everything. He smiled at the thought.

Sitting against that tree was a lot more calming for the nerves than Soda thought it would be. He realized how tired he felt and knew he could go to sleep right then and there. The voice in the back of his head told him that he should keep going. The voice sounded a little like Ponyboy's. He smiled and said, "yeah, yeah." He used the tree to stand up, but before he got to full height, he felt a sharp pain that ran the full length of his torso, which caused him to double-over and fall back to the ground.

White spots invaded the darkness as he looked around, confused. Why was he in so much pain? While he sat against the tree, he lifted up his shirt, which he then noticed had been ripped and bloodied, and let out a humourless laugh as he saw the large gash in his skin, running from his armpit to his waist on the left. He hadn't noticed it before, but a large piece of metal had cut him and was still sticking out of his skin. Blood covered his entire left side and he could see a small puddle of blood forming next to where he was sitting.

Sodapop sighed. He was dying and he knew it. His dreams floated away and reality flooded back. The only way he'd go home was in a casket. If he was found. When he first landed in Vietnam and experienced his first battle, Soda had realized that death was an extremely real possibility for him. One night, he wrote a long letter to Ponyboy, Darry, and the guys, who he hoped hadn't been drafted as well. It was several pages long, expressing his love for all of his brothers, biological and not, and revealing silly secrets about pranks and Sandy, and anything else he could think of. He wanted to give them closure. Afterwards, he kept it in his jacket's front pocket, wrapped in plastic to protect it from the rain, and kept it on his person at all times. Just in case. Now, he realized he could very possibly not be found. Would they come back for the fallen soldiers? If they did, would they miss him? What was going to happen to him? What about Pony? Could the gang survive another tragedy? How would they react? The Curtis parents, Dally, Johnny, and now him, Sodapop. He didn't think himself anything special, but he knew that they cared for him deeply. He didn't want to put them through that much pain. He didn't want to die. And he most definitely didn't want to die alone. He was 18, for Christ's sake.

He felt tears running down his face as he thought about it all. He could feel his strength leaving him and the darkness became greater. The tears stopped falling and his breathing slowed. Calmness overcame him as the ringing stopped and the silence came. And then he was at peace.

* * *

Two-Bit Mathews sat on the front steps of the Curtis brothers' house drinking a cheap Oklahoma-made beer. It wasn't the best quality, but it was cheap and got the job done. Two-Bit wasn't much for sobriety lately, so he didn't care what he got or where he got it from, so long as he felt as little as possible. Over the past year, Mrs. Mathews had become increasingly worried about the amount of alcohol he was taking in. He laughed it off and pretended that it was only occasional, but it wasn't.

Thirteen months ago, his friend, Sodapop Curtis, had been drafted by Uncle Sam to fight in Vietnam. Some three months later, Steve Randle, another of his friends, had been drafted as well. The gang received a couple letters from each of them, but otherwise had heard very little. Two-Bit wished that he was drinking so much because he was worried about his friends, but the truth was that he feared for his own life. He didn't want to be drafted and the thought of it made him sick. He found that drink calmed is nerves. There was also a part of him that hoped the alcohol would have some medical side effects that would make him ineligible for the army.

Things were a lot quieter around the Curtis house with two more of the gang missing. Three. That's all there were. Ponyboy, Darry, and him. It was lonely and empty. Darry worked and because it was the summer, Ponyboy got himself a part time position as well. They were both safe from the draft at the moment – Darry was Ponyboy's primary caregiver, and Ponyboy was only sixteen. Hopefully the war would be over before the kid turned eighteen because both of Two-Bit's remaining friends would be eligible for the draft as well. Luck was never something that graced the gang. Two-Bit wouldn't be surprised if they all ended up overseas before the war was over.

Two-Bit leaned back against the stairs and closed his eyes. He had finished the beer and could feel the buzz coming on strong. He could hear the television in the background; Ponyboy and Darry were both home as it was early evening. Darry would be making supper for the three of them and Ponyboy would be watching anything other than News. Two-Bit had made a habit of spending a lot more time at the Curtis house. He found it more comforting than his own home. It was as if he was grasping at a life line there. The more bad News he saw, the bleaker it all seemed. He found it hard to joke at all anymore, so his nickname had lost all meaning.

Lost in thought, Two-Bit gave a start when he heard a car door close. He looked to the street and felt his heart stop when he saw the source of the noise. An army jeep. A man in uniform stepped out of the jeep and Two-Bit saw an envelope in his hand as he approached the house.

When the man approached Two-Bit, he asked, "Darrel Curtis?"

Two-Bit realized he was holding his breath and only then exhaled. He couldn't find words, but held out his hand. The man placed the envelope in his hand, turned, and walked away. As he drove off, Two-Bit stared after him. When he was out of sight, he looked down at the letter. A small part of him tried to convince himself that it wasn't the kind of letter. But what other kinds came hand-delivered from the army? He could feel tears stinging his eyes, so he shook his head. He had to give the letter to Darry. Two-Bit took a deep breath and stood.

Slowly, he walked to the door and opened it. He stopped in the entrance, but Ponyboy didn't seem to notice as he watched some show mindlessly. As he suspected, Darry was in the kitchen fixing dinner. He walked through the living room and into the kitchen. Darry didn't notice him with his back turned to the stove.

"Darry?" Two-Bit said quietly.

Darry turned around with a smile. He often wore smiles to lighten the mood, but his eyes always gave away the smiles' insincerity. He must have seen something in Two-Bit's face, because the smile quickly turned into alarm. "Two-Bit? What is it?"

All that Two-Bit could muster was, "army," as he held out the envelope for him to grab.

Darry grabbed it quickly and took in a deep breath. He went to open it up, his hands shaking, but stopped, "Pon- Ponyboy, c'mere."

A short moment later, Pony was in the kitchen. He saw the letter and his eyes immediately filled with tears. "Is he-?"

Darry didn't respond, but opened the envelope and entered its contents on the kitchen table. Pony let out a whimper as the tags hit the table. Out came a plastic-wrapped collection of papers, a photograph, and an official letter from the army. Darry opened the letter and read the first sentence, "we regret to inform you that Sodapop Curtis was…." Darry's voice cracked as he said the next word, "…killed… in battle…." He trailed off, unable to read the rest. His throat felt dry and his vision was blurred with tears.

Two-Bit had slid to the floor and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook as he cried, unable to stay strong for the remaining Curtis brothers.

Tears fell freely down Ponyboy's face as he cried silently and gasped between sobs.

Darry blinked back the tears, but didn't trust his voice. He looked through the contents that had also fallen from the envelopes. The tags had "CURTIS, SODAPOP" neatly engraved into them as if to prove just how real it all was. He picked up the photograph. It was of him and Sandy. Darry wondered if she knew he was in… had been in Vietnam. He would have to tell her for Soda. The other object seemed to be a thick rectangle of papers wrapped in plastic. Darry grabbed a paring knife from a drawer and cut the plastic, careful not to knick the papers.

He unfolded the papers and saw that it was a long letter. Darry broke down sobbing, all strength gone from his person, as he read the first line to himself:

_Hey Darry, it's Soda._


	2. The Letter

**AN: Thanks for the review, badger222012. There's a certain amount of sociopathic pleasure that accompanies the knowledge that you made someone cry with the written word.**

**I started to write this chapter THREE times. I almost gave up. When I started it, I pulled my laptop's cord the wrong way and the computer shut off without me being able to save what I had done. The second time, I was almost done and didn't learn my lesson; I did the same thing and lost it all. Then I went to bed, too enraged to try again. Third time's a charm, though (and saving every sentence). So here it is. There's one other thing in this chapter based on S. E. Hinton/Sodapop trivia that I read and so worked with. It may not be true, but... the internet never lies, so I'm pretty comfortable with it...**

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**CHAPTER TWO**

**The Letter**

_Hey Darry, it's Soda._

_ I guess if you're reading this, I'm not coming home. Sorry. As I'm writing this, I know I'm going to be doing my best out here so that I can come home and see you and the gang. So, if you're reading this, please know that I tried._

_It has been a month since I came to Vietnam and I experienced my first bombing yesterday. Luckily, I was unharmed, but others died. I knew some of them. Not real good, but I knew them. All I could think was they left their families with nothing. Sure, you get that army letter telling you when and how, but what does that do? More questions than answers, I think. So, I wanted to get this out, tell you the few secrets I have, and hopefully make ya'll feel better about the whole situation. Just think, if I don't die, I probably won't come back in one piece anyway. I think death is better than that. Maybe._

_There's this guy here, a soldier like me, who sorta reminds me of Two-Bit. Hell, Two-Bit is 100 times funnier than this guy, but this guys – his name's James – approaches all the bad in this place with humour. I don't think he finds anything funny about it, but he makes us all feel better about being in this hell. Two-Bit should know that. I know he's scared about being drafted. I hope it doesn't happen, but I don't want him to just lose himself because he's scared. You have no idea how much difference having James here makes. Things just ain't as bleak with someone laughing at it all._

_Darry, I just thought of this. I don't know why. It's funny… for me anyway. You might be a little pissed. Remember that smoking cheerleader that you started going steady with before she broke up with you? I think her name was Louise. God, I musta been 12 or 13. I'm the reason she broke up with you. I thought it'd be funny to see how she'd react if she thought you was two-timing her. It was funny, turns out. I don't know how I got away with it because my writing has always been god awful. Anyways, I wrote a letter to you from a girl named Lucy and left it in the truck for her to find. She did and I watched as she started accusing you of cheating on her because the letter talked about you and Lucy's "romantic" nights. The look on your face was fucking priceless. You were so god damned confused. You guys just started going steady and then she broke up with you right then and there. I had to go for a walk so you wouldn't see me laughing. Sorry, man. It was worth it though._

_Hey, Steve. I've been thinking a lot about that auto repair place we talked about. You think about things like that a lot out here. If I can't make it back, I still want you to open it. Maybe drag Two-Bit into it. Give him a job as a receptionist or something. God knows he don't know a thing about cars. Get him off his lazy ass. You could even save your money and probably by the DX. The boss man is pretty damn old and could drop off at any moment. Your work is already half done then. You still need to do it. Don't give up on it just because I'm not there. That's stupid._

_Anyways, the biggest thing I wanted to tell all ya'll is about Sandy. I guess it's her secret as much as mine, but she hasn't got back to any of my letters. Maybe she really don't care about me like I thought. I still love that girl anyways. Well, when I was 16, I had it in my mind that I'd be marrying Sandy. I was going to wait til Ponyboy went to college so that I could still help Darry with the bills and all that. By the way, Ponyboy, if you shut down after my death like you did after Johnny and Dally died, I'm gonna haunt you or something. You better damn well go to college still or you'll have a ghost following you EVERYWHERE saying "go to college, dumb ass" until you do. Save us all a lot of trouble. Seriously Ponyboy, you're the smartest out of any of us. Don't waste that! Okay, so Sandy and I had this planned, but then shit happened. If I'm being honest, it still makes me mad, but I loved her – still do, I guess – more than my anger. She slept with some guy and got knocked up. She wouldn't tell me who it was, which is good I guess because I woulda bust his skull in. But I wanted to get married right then and there. Raise some guy's bastard as my own. That's how damned heartsick I was. But then her parents shipped her out to her aunt's and they wanted her to give the kid up. I don't know if she did. The last thing I received from her was this bullshit letter about how she never loved me and how she never wanted to see me again. It didn't sound nothing like her, so I'm pretty sure she was forced to write it. I wrote her a letter back, but she never responded. She probably didn't get it._

_Anyways, that's me and Sandy. I have a picture of her and me in my pocket. I don't know if I still love her. It has been over two years now, but I like the reminder of being in love at least once. If this is being read, then that means I'll never be in love again. And boy, is that sad. All you guys need to fall in love. Marry a girl. Pony, you wait until you're done college. Girls are too much trouble to have while in school._

_Darry, you never really talked about what you wanted to do when Pony was off at college and I was making a living, but you should still do it. If you still want to go to college, I'd say you should go. Even if it's at one of those dummy colleges. It's still important. You and Pony were the ones with the book smarts. I had none of that. I'm a car guy. School never made me happy, but boy, cars sure do. You guys were school guys. Hopefully all turns out good for you guys._

_Hey, I forgot to mention, but could you let Sandy know that I kicked the bucket? I don't know if she'd want to know, but the thought makes me feel better._

_I'm trying to think of other confessions, but I'm pretty sure I owned up to most everything that I've done. Pranks and all that. I can't think of anything. I've told at least one of you guys any secrets I had. People like to talk about the dead after they die. It might hurt, but I hope you guys talk about me too. Tell everyone my secrets and all my dipshit little pranks. Laugh about me. The last thing I'd want would be for people to CRY about me. That thought scares me. Just laugh and remember me that way._

_The thought of dying out here is scary but also comforting because I know that you guys will only have the image of me as I was before I left. I don't look the same at all. I have this god awful buzz cut, no grease, I think I've lost weight but have more muscle, and the lack of sleep has me looking pale and dark-eyed. I don't even recognize myself in the mirror. The girls wouldn't think anything of me now, that's for damned sure._

_Anyways, there's not really anything else I can think to say. It's nice writing just because I feel like I'm talking to you guys again. I don't know if you're writing – I've received some letters from Ponyboy. Thanks Ponyboy. But a lot letters don't make it out here, I hear. So, sorry if I don't reply. I'm making time to write this letter. I should be sleeping, but thinking that you guys would have nothing was keeping me awake. I don't get any other time to write though. It makes me happy when I do read something though. I'm going to fold these papers up and wrap them in plastic so that they don't get wet. They'll stay in my pocket, along with the picture of Sandy and me, so that if I die, they'll find both and send them back._

_Please know that I love all ya'll with all my heart – Steve and Two-Bit, just as much as Darry and Pony. You're all my brothers. I wish I could do more than this letter, but it's all I got. I hope it's enough. I'm sorry about this. I hope you guys have good lives and help each other out when needed. It's gonna be a tough road. The war will end at some point – soon, hopefully – and then you won't have to worry about being drafted at all. That's my hope for all of you._

_Goodnight, Darry, Pony, Steve, and Two-Bit. Thank you for being such a big part of me._

_ Sodapop Curtis_


	3. Steve

**AN: I'm running on backup generators here, but I wanted to get this chapter up. It might become unintelligible by the end because I feel like I'm going to pass out, but didn't want to lose my train of thought, if ever there was one. I'm thinking one or two more chapters. It might increase. Who knows? Thanks for the reviews, reviewers. This chapter is titled "Soldier's Poem" because... Muse. And there are various great "soldier" songs to choose from. But, this is the song you should listen to if you're listening to a song while reading this. Okay, sleep now. Hope you enjoy it somewhat.**

**Post-delirium edit: I've changed the chapter's title in order to suit the running theme of chapter titles, but the song is still a pretty good 'un, so you could still listen to it. I could barely keep my eyes open while I was finishing the chapters, but I NEEDED to finish and post it. I'm so, so sorry.**

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**CHAPTER THREE**

**Steve**

Darry read the letter out loud, his voice cracking with near every word, and his vision more blurred as he went on and the tears flowed. He couldn't imagine a world without Sodapop. He was the glue in the gang. How could they all stay friends when Soda, the guy who was constantly drunk off of life, was no longer around? A world that was bright and full of colour had suddenly become dark and grey.

He was Soda's caregiver; not just a brother, but a father and a friend too. Darry was supposed to protect his kid brothers. The government swooped in and made it impossible for him to do that. His brother had died and Darry couldn't have done a damned thing to prevent it. He looked up from the letter to see both Two-Bit and Ponyboy on the floor, tears in their eyes as well. He wondered how Soda could think they would be able to laugh and celebrate when they heard he died. Soda must have not known just how important he was.

All of this enraged Darry; he threw the letters on the table and stormed out of the house. Pony and Two-Bit could hear Darry's truck doors slam and the engine start. Darry pulled away and only the sounds of sobs remained in the small kitchen.

Ponyboy stood up and walked to the cupboard, grabbing a couple of glasses and filling them with water at the sink. He walked by the kitchen table, careful not to look at the table until he composed himself. He sat the glass down beside Two-Bit and then quickly drank his, forcing himself to keep the tears from falling. He had to be strong now… Sodapop would never be there to comfort him again.

Tears still rolled down Pony's face as he made his way to the table. He saw the letter written by Soda. He sat down and read it over to himself. Soda's last words to them. Once he re-read it, he looked at the other things on the table: the photo of Soda and Sandy, the army letter, and the army tags. Pony took the tags and slipped them around his neck. It made him feel closer to his fallen brother. He unfolded the army letter and read it.

It told them that Soda had died following an enemy bombing. Pony hoped he had died quickly. Knowing that he could have felt pain was what really broke Ponyboy's heart. Did he die alone? Were there others? Why didn't the army tell them all of this?

He thought about Steve. Angry and bitter Steve, best friend of Sodapop Curtis. If he trusted anyone, it was Soda. What would this do to him? Pony wasn't sure if he should write to Steve and tell him, or wait until he found his way back home. Darry would know.

Two-Bit looked up to Pony who was going through the contents of the envelope. A life was taken and that's all there was to show for it.

Darry drove out of town, far away. Somehow, he thought that it would feel better, the further away he got. But it didn't. It stung just as bad no matter where he went. The tears had stopped falling hours ago because of the plain fact that there were no more tears left. His eyes were raw.

The sun had set and the sky was dark. Darry hadn't read the rest of the letter, but he wondered when Soda had actually died. Was it dark too? Or had he been killed in broad daylight? While Darry was out roofing a house, was Sodapop dying alone in the night? Or maybe while Darry was sleeping? Whatever he was doing, it wasn't as important as Soda's life.

Darry looked around him, taking in his surroundings. The only lights were the stars and the truck's headlights. In either direction, there was miles of road or field. He sighed. Sodapop was dead, but Ponyboy still lived. And he shouldn't be alone. Darry slowed to a stop, shifted gears, and managed to turn the truck around on the narrow dirt road.

When Darry pulled up in front of the house, he noticed that the only light was the soft blue glow of the television. It must have been well past midnight. He stepped out of the truck and only then realized how much he was shaking – how unsteady he was. He took a deep breath and put on the strong front that was always expected of him, and walked into the house.

Two-Bit was lying on the couch, looking up at the ceiling, an empty glass held in his hands, which rested on his chest. The television was silent as only images from some show played across the screen. Darry didn't see Ponyboy anywhere, so went to search for him without a word.

As he reached the kitchen, he turned the light on to see Ponyboy sitting at the table with his head resting on his arms. His eyes were closed and he looked like he was sleeping. Darry knew that it couldn't be that easy though.

"Pony," he said quietly. It was as if he hadn't heard his voice in years and the strain was unfamiliar to him. He noticed how dry his throat was and how hoarse his voice.

Pony shifted his head to look at Darry. The kid's eyes were just as red and raw as Darry's were and he looked exhausted. If he could cry anymore, Darry was sure that he would be. Just like him. When Pony was able to register who had said his name, he stood and walked right up to Darry, who wrapped him in a big hug. They stayed that way for a long time, and Darry kept saying, "I'm sorry, little buddy. I'm sorry." Darry wasn't sure just what he was apologizing for – because he left? Because his favourite brother was dead? Because it wasn't enough? All of the above?

"We need…" Darry started, trying to keep his voice steady while giving an order that he really didn't want to follow through with. "We need to get some sleep."

He felt Ponyboy's head shake, "no. Not tonight. Not…" _Alone_. Pony didn't have to finish his sentence, Darry understood. They decided to head into the living room and watch the television. It wasn't anything very interesting, but it was better than News. Pony took a seat on the floor against the couch, next to Two-Bit while Darry sat in his recliner. They had the sound turned up loud, as if to drive any thoughts about Soda away. They stayed this way until the sun rose.

The next day, a Thursday, Darry called into work and took the day off. Ponyboy did the same. Two-Bit did little more than drink water on the couch. No one made breakfast and few words were exchanged until midday.

Shortly after noon, the phone rang. Darry answered and spoke with Mrs. Mathews, who cried with the news about Sodapop. There seemed to be a lot of that going on. Beyond that, the day was rather uneventful. The three read and re-read the letters, trying to make sense of Soda's death, but all that did was leave fresh wounds.

Later in the day, Ponyboy was reading Soda's letter for what seemed like the billionth time, and he thought about Steve again. Letting him know about Soda's death could prove to be detrimental – he would undoubtedly lose his temper and then there would be nothing to stop him from doing something stupid in his blind rage. But Pony didn't think he could just _not_ tell Steve. What if he wrote Soda? Finding out that way was probably worse. So Ponyboy decided to write the letter.

* * *

Steve Randle's eyes opened to the view of a white ceiling. In the corners of some tiles, he saw stains from water damage, and not all of the tiles matched. It looked like they used whatever they could find when building the place, rather than what made sense. He tried to stretch out, but his body was stiff and his brain was starting to register the pain in his leg and shoulder. A deep sleep seemed to make all of that go away, but the morning brought it all back.

This was his fifth consecutive day in the hospital and the damned bed. His company had been under fire and he ended up getting caught up in it. The medics had been able to stifle the bleeding in his leg and shoulder, and inject his blood with plenty of morphine, so that he could survive the trip to the hospital. He had first been transferred to a MASH unit where the doctors removed the bullets, but his leg was badly injured beyond bullet wounds. It was not inoperable, and he was given every assurance that his leg would heal… eventually; it would be a long process, meaning that he would get to go home. He figured that he should have been careless long ago. However, as it stood, he remained in the stationary army hospital in South Korea, healing enough for a plane ticket home.

Steve searched the line of beds for a nurse to give him his painkillers. There were various other injured soldiers in the hospital, all from different companies and with different titles and ranks. They were all equals when they fell in action, although some injuries were worse than others. Some men had lost a limb or more, were insane from head wounds and weak stomachs, or were delirious with pain. Steve considered himself lucky. At least he wasn't that far gone.

Becoming fed up at the fact that no nurse had come to check up on him, he started calling for one. He looked up at the ceiling and called, "nurse. Nurse!" He repeated the chant until a very annoyed nurse appeared. "If you were doing your job, I wouldn't be doing nothing to annoy you," he said upon noticing her mood. She scoffed, gave him his pills with water, and left. Shortly afterwards, a new nurse appeared with breakfast. If there was one thing that Steve would never want to see again, it wouldn't be war and death, but oatmeal. He never liked it to begin with, so after eating it for near nine months, it made him sick to his stomach.

"You need to eat," the nurse said when he refused the mushy mess.

"Yeah, well, I'd rather eat worms. Got any worms lyin' around?" He got a whiff of the oatmeal and nearly gagged, "Jesus Christ. Get that garbage away from me. You're gonna make me vomit." He all but shoved the nurse away before she took the oatmeal and left.

He was quickly becoming one of the least enjoyed patients, and he knew it. If the nurses and doctors would listen to him, then maybe things would be different. That's what he told himself anyway.

As he became stronger, he also became more restless. He wanted to get up and _do_ something; he hated sitting around, useless as a rock, but the doctors wouldn't clear him for anything physical. Naturally, he took it out on the nurses. He would try to get out of bed and start walking around, although it resembled hopping a lot more due to only one leg being useable at the time. The nurses would chew him out and force him back to bed. This scene would repeat itself often.

At two o'clock, he was sitting in his bed with a deck of cards that one of the nurses agreed to get for him. If he had to choose a favourite nurse, it would be this one. She would get annoyed along with the rest of the nurses, but she would still listen to him and make time for him. Steve would never admit it, but it was nice to have someone act like they cared – especially nurses, whose job it was to care. She sat on the end of his bed, holding a hand of cards while he dealt the last card face up. He had a shit hand and would have a large debt if they were using actual money. She put her hand down, face up, with a large smile on her face. Three-of-a-kind, aces. "How in Hell did you manage that?" Steve asked, throwing his own cards down; he had nothing. Not even a pair.

"Just lucky, I guess," she said as she slipped off the bed. "I need to make rounds, but I'll be back later."

As she left, a man in army attire entered the room. A man would come in at the same time every day in the same manner, distributing the mail where necessary. Steve never expected any mail in the hospital. He had received mail from the gang in the past, but letters were few and far between. Probably because he never bothered to write back. When did he have the time? He was never really good at writing anyway, and he found it incredibly dull.

The army man called names and delivered the mail. All the while, Steve Randle shuffled the cards. He was surprised when he heard, "Steve Randle," but did not hesitate to raise his hand for his mail. He opened up the envelope to reveal a short letter, so he unfolded it and read:

_Steve,_

_This is Ponyboy writing. I hope you're doing alright, all things considered. We're all hoping to hear good things about you. Maybe you'll get to come home soon. I'm not just writing to say hi, but before I do tell you, I want to say this: don't do anything stupid. We want you to come home._

_Yesterday, a letter was delivered to Darry, Two-Bit, and I from the United States Army. Sodapop was killed in action following enemy bombing. We don't know much more beyond that. Soda wrote us all a letter a while before he died. You can read it when you get back._

Steve desperately flipped the paper over, hoping to see more, but there was nothing. The kid, the writer, couldn't say anything else? That was it. For a moment, he thought it was a cruel joke, but he knew that he was simply grasping at straws. He felt hot and needed to get up; he needed to move, to leave the room, to be alone – anything. He threw the letter on his bed and flung his legs off the side, standing up quickly. The pain from standing on his injured leg shot through him and he winced, but ignored it otherwise as he limped towards the door.

"Mr. Randle, get back into bed!" one of the regular nurses snapped.

He ignored her and continued on.

She ran up to him and grabbed his wrist, "Mr. Randle!"

He spun around, wincing in the process and shouted, "fuck off!" Tears stung the corners of his eyes, but he refused to show those people his emotional pain, and continued on his way. Most of the people silently watched as Steve exited the area while the others ignored the outburst and continued their conversations and duties, unfazed.

Once in the hall, he ran into the card-playing nurse. He expected her to try and force him back to his bed like the other nurses had, but instead she asked, "want some company?"

He simply grunted, not wanting to speak and not really trusting his voice. She followed silently, only stopping for a moment, he saw, at the nurse's desk. In a short moment, she had caught up with him and handed him a cane. Steve felt like an old man while using the cane, but it did really help to relieve the discomfort that the throbbing pain in his leg was causing and he was silently thankful.

Steve didn't know the area well and wasn't sure where he was going when he exited the hospital, but he followed a path to a small garden. It seemed as good a place as any. He hobbled to a bench, thankful to have a quiet place to sit. He leaned his head back and kept his face upturned to the sky while keeping his eyes closed. The nurse sat beside him in silence.

"Do you have a cigarette?" he asked after several minutes had passed. The nurse wordlessly passed him a cigarette and gave him a light. Still, she was silent.

He remained silent until he finished his cigarette. He desperately hoped that it would calm his nerves and make him far less emotional. Realizing that it didn't work, he figured that he would try to get his mind off of it. "What brought you over here?" he asked the nurse.

She shrugged, "I was needed."

Steve laughed bitterly, "there's plenty of nurses. Why do you think you're so special?"

"Sure, there are a lot of nurses… but none of them are as good as I am. And none of them care as much either."

He was mildly surprised that she was so sure of herself, "yeah, well… I'd probably have to agree with you there." Again, there was silence. Steve wasn't a fan of silence to start with, but now it had become deafening. The silence meant that he could think and that meant remembering Sodapop. He wondered how Soda had died and where. Was he nearby? Could he have run into Soda the next day, or the day after that? Was he alone? Had he suffered? What did the letter say? He started remembering things that they had done together and things they would never get to do. Steve even though about the Curtis brothers and how it must be tearing them up. No one was as complete without Sodapop Curtis.

Steve leaned forward, resting his face in his hands. What was he supposed to do without his best friend? He started taking deep breaths, refusing to cry. If he was alone, he probably wouldn't fight so hard. Why did that damned nurse have to tag along?

"It's okay to cry, you know," she said, startling Steve out of his thoughts.

He simply shook his head.

"What happened, Steve?"

She had been the only nurse to use his first name ever and he didn't seem to mind it as much as he thought he would. He didn't respond.

"If you tell me, I'll let you come out here more often," she offered. "I'll even leave you alone for a little while."

The idea was enticing, but he still didn't respond.

"Who died, Steve?" she asked softly and more sincerely.

Steve sighed, knowing that she wouldn't leave him alone unless he said something, so he said, "my brother." And then the tears flowed freely.


	4. Home

**AN: Thank you to those reviewers with so many kind words and tears. I like tears! This chapter ended up being really short. It was either really short or much longer, but I figured I'd split it up so that you have something to read in the meantime. I think one more chapter will suffice.**

**Also, take a look a the badly photoshopped cover photo of Soda as a soldier. It looked like him in the beginning but... stuff happened. For the lack of talent I have, I was pretty pleased with how it turned out haha. Anyway...**

**Enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**Home**

The nurse slid over and draped her arm across his back as he sobbed silently into his hands. "Tell me about him," she said after a moment.

Steve took several deep breaths, trying to stop the tears and the hurt, but it was as if the flood gates had been opened, and there was no end in sight. A long time passed by with Steve crying, and constantly trying to stop, and the nurse rubbing his back, trying her best to comfort him. Finally, he was able to gain control of his emotions; he took a few more deep breaths and sighed. "He was my best friend. I knew him since kindergarten. We did everything together when we was kids, and spent most our free time together as we got older. We even worked at the same gas station, working on cars. We were gonna open up our own auto place. You know, fixin' cars and making our own money. Being really successful. Our station was already the most popular in town. I never had a real brother and my old man is a stinkin' drunk. Soda was the only real family I had. I mean, sure, there's his brothers and Two-Bit – they're sorta my family too, but it ain't gonna be the same without Soda. Everything good about life was in that kid. It's gonna be a terrible place, home. His kid brother said that Soda wrote a letter for everyone a while before his death. He said I could read it when I get back, but what's the point?"

"You said it yourself: his brothers are your brothers. You won't care either way about going back to your dad and maybe he won't care either, but I think they care about you. Otherwise they probably wouldn't have bothered telling you, and they wouldn't have tried giving you so much incentive to get home."

Steve scoffed. He didn't care about the contents of the letter. What did it matter now?

The nurse sighed, "listen, I'm going to go do some rounds and when I get back, I'm going to bring you back to your bed. In the meantime, just stay put. Your leg is in pretty bad shape, so don't do anything to agitate it any more than it already is." She got up and began walking away, but stopped and turned around to say, "I'm sorry about your friend, Steve."

Steve nodded and watched her walk away. He was finally glad to be alone with his thoughts, although that hurt more than anything. He spent the next hour thinking about Soda, crying freely, and wondering about the remaining Curtis brothers' states.

The nurse eventually came back and led Steve to his bed. He made a note to listen to the doctors when it came to his leg as the throbbing continued. Several nurses and patients stared at him as he settled in before he shot them a look that could kill.

Steve looked up at the ceiling once more, while he lay in his bed. The nurse gave him his pain pills. Again, he thought of Soda. It seemed that his thoughts would always go back there. He wondered how long that would last; it seemed like it would never end. Although it was only five o'clock, Steve's eyelids felt heavy. He welcomed the sleep that came and escaped from the world.

* * *

It had been a month since they received the letter telling them of Soda's death. The wounds were still fresh, but the gang – what was left of it – was now able to function. Darry and Pony went to work, while Two-Bit continued wallowing in self-pity, inviting more alcohol than ever before to keep him company. He spent most of his time away from home, at the Curtis house, in order to avoid motherly lectures and worry. He lay on the couch, staring at the TV, watching Mickey if it was on, and drinking himself into a stupor.

It was late afternoon when he began dozing off, dreaming of nothing. He was startled awake by the slamming of the front door, and groaned. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and squinted as the daylight invaded his vision.

"Beer for supper too, Two-Bit?"

Two-Bit recognized the voice immediately. Before he could see clearly, and before he could see where he was walking, he stumbled over to the voice's owner and pulled him into a sloppy embrace.

"Jesus, Two-Bit. When's the last time you had a shower?"

Two-Bit pulled back with a stupid grin. "Nice haircut," he said, patting Steve's head; his hair had started growing back following his time in the hospital, but it was still shorter than his usual style. As it stood, it resembled a Soc style rather than a greaser style.

"Yeah, I figured I'd try something new out." He walked into the living room and took a look around. Two-Bit had clearly claimed squatting rights, judging by the bottles and cans of various beer types strewn throughout. He put his bag on Darry's recliner and took a deep breath. The house was empty, save for Two-Bit, but it was still good to be home. The Curtis house was his first stop. He really didn't care about seeing the old man. "Where's Pony?" he wondered.

Two-Bit was still standing in the door way, swaying as he watched his friend take in his surroundings. "Old Ponyboy got himself a summer job," Two-Bit slurred happily. He could feel tears trying to fight their way out, but he had to keep himself composed.

"Darry's letting the kid work? I thought I'd never see the day," he replied with a laugh.

"Yeah," Two-Bit said. "Pony should be back soon…" he trailed off as he realized the state of the room. "Guess I should clean up." He stumbled into the kitchen and found a paper bag; he sat on the couch, threw a few cans into the bag, and then took a break. He leaned back on the couch and fell asleep almost immediately.

Steve decided to help him out, and picked up the remaining cans and bottles, filling several grocery bags. By the time he finished the task, it was four thirty. He moved his bag and sat in the recliner as he heard the gate on the fence open. He could see Pony walking up the front steps, dragging his feet. He looked dog-tired.

Ponyboy opened the screen door with a big yawn, took a look at Two-Bit on the couch, and then the recliner where Steve sat. It took him a moment as well as a double-take to realize who was in their living room. "Steve!" he said, shocked, happy, and confused at the same time.

While Steve was gone, the kid sure grew into his looks. He didn't quite look like Soda did, but the similarities were there, and Steve had no doubt that girls would soon be flocking to him if they weren't already. "Hey kid, how's the real world treating you?"

Pony just laughed and quickly walked up to him. Steve stood up and pulled the kid into a hug. Pony was happy to know the Steve was alive and well, and home. "Why didn't you tell us you were coming home?"

Steve shrugged, "I didn't want nobody paying attention to me. One word to you and you'd be flapping your mouth at anyone who would listen."

"Hell, that ain't true," Pony replied, feigning hurt.

"Yeah, whatever you say Ponyboy."

The two sat at the kitchen table, talking about anything. They only mentioned Soda in passing instead of dwelling him. Eventually, Two-Bit woke up and stumbled into the kitchen to join them, still drunk. Ponyboy forced him to drink water and sober up.

When Darry returned home after six o'clock, like he usually did, hugs were once again exchanged and everyone wore big smiles, which was far from the norm for the past month.

Ponyboy made dinner for all four of them while they talked. Steve told stories of his time overseas and about his leg injury. He no longer needed a cane, but still limped, and hobbled like an old man first thing in the morning. He talked about a nurse named Katherine, who he met while in the hospital, and the friends he made in his company. However, he avoided any topic about death or the horrors he saw.

As they ate, he told the gang a story about a soldier he met in the hospital who had a bad head wound and one arm. "This guy was so banged up and I swear to God, he was out of his damned mind. I think the nurses put him next me to try and punish me. I'm pretty sure there wasn't a single day he didn't spend laughing at damned near everything. One day, we're playing some poker to pass the time – I don't think he had any idea what we were playing, he was so out of it on painkillers – and this new nurse comes in doing whatever the hell nurses do. She had this ugly face – real mean with a real mean mole too – and, my God, she was fat. You'd think they'd have restrictions on who they let do that. She wasn't no big-boned woman either – she probably ate the bones that came with her meals, you know what I mean? Anyway, this nurse – I don't remember her name. We always just referred to her as 'the ugly one' – she comes over to us, ready to chew us out for playing poker when we were supposed to be sleeping. They made us go to bed at nine o'clock, like we could do that. She don't say nothing, but comes up and grabs the cards out of my hand and then his, and starts putting them into her pocket and walking away. I'm ready to start yelling, but then this guy, he says, 'I know you must be starving, working the late shift and all, but there's a cafeteria down the hall with better food than playing cards.' The joke was so damn terrible that all I could do was laugh. So the bitch turns around, about to put him in his place. When she gets close enough, he jumps up and charges at her. She stops in her tracks, staring at this one-armed lunatic running at her, and he bumps into her, reaching into her pocket and stealing the cards back. He then continues running, straight out the doors, shouting, 'I'm free, Randle! I'm free!' A few minutes later, one of the other nurses brings him back while Ugly had gone and done whatever else. He's brought back to his bed and is suddenly dead tired. After he's covered and lying in bed, he says, 'same time tomorrow?' as if nothing happened, and goes to sleep." Steve laughed, "he was fucking insane. It made the rest of my stay easier. His name is James Codina; I left before him, but when he gets back, he's gonna track me down. He's from Chicago." He paused to take a spoonful of potatoes and a sip of milk. After a moment, he continued solemnly: "James was in the same company as Soda. They were buddies."


End file.
